


you say you'll cut your bangs

by MamaWeeds



Category: Carmilla (Web Series)
Genre: F/F, seriously nasty and gay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-20
Updated: 2017-03-20
Packaged: 2018-08-23 12:37:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8328205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MamaWeeds/pseuds/MamaWeeds
Summary: Five new things about Carmilla, and two things that have always been exactly the same-- post series finale, newly human Carm, and literally the gayest sappiest couple on the face of the planet





	1. Chapter 1

1\. Neither of you speak more than a few words once you’ve made it to the motel. There isn’t much to say-- you had _died_ and she was freshly _alive_ and you had stopped the end of the world all less than eight hours ago. 

So, yeah, you’re quiet (maybe for one of the first times in your life), but it feels good. The two of you, hand in hand, simply allowed to exist for now. Your friends had all gone off to deal with their own radically extended lives, and frankly after all that you had gone through in the last couple of months to make sure that they were safe, you feel not even the slightest bit of guilt scrambling out of the pit, grabbing your essentials from the library, and making out of Silas like the free people you are now.

The two of you walk like a three-legged race, unwilling to put any large amount of distance between your bodies, hands cradled, thighs brushing, Carmilla’s thumb running over your knuckles with the gentle reassurance she was always so natural at giving. 

You’d walked until you came across the closest motel, a slightly shabby looking place huddled off the side of the road miles away from Silas. The bushes were overgrown, the topiaries weedy, and the smattering of lights on across different rooms had the yellowed glow only found at old motels.

Carmilla is smooth as ice and charming as hell, leaning in conspiratorially to chatter with the septuagenarian woman at the front counter in beautifully flowing High German, and before you know what’s happened the two of you are being ushered into a drab little room down the hall, with that particular hotel smell of pool water, old bed sheets, and a little bit of cigarette smoke. She’s behind you then, arms wrapped around your middle and nose brushing your ear and she’s _warm_ and she’s _breathing_ so you sort of just feel that for a bit.

“I told her that we’re American tourists and our luggage got stolen in Graz, so we’re graciously being hosted for the night free of charge.” She purrs, rocking the two of you slightly from side to side. You hum your approval, leaning back into her warmth. Carmilla had never been cold before; more like cool, just slightly under the temperature that you and other living people ran, but now she’s warm, hot even, and you’re blissed out just from the skin-to-skin contact.

“Carmilla von Karnstein, slayer of evil and relentless charmer of old ladies,” you mumble. She chuckles and tickles your side, and you twitch away from her with a squeal. 

You lunge when she takes a step back, twisting around in her arms to attack her ribs with wiggling fingers, and she jolts backwards into the bed laughing, “Mercy, cupcake, mercy!” 

When you look at her, her cheeks are flushed pink, her red lips parted wide in laughter, chest heaving as she tries to catch her breath from laughing so hard. You’re stunned for a second by this, how much things have changed in such a short space of time.

You’ve never been immune to how beautiful Carmilla was, never went more than a few hours without being nearly floored by the idea that someone so incredibly gorgeous was _yours_ , but now? Mortality has made her, if possible, even more breathtaking. Soft, warm, pliant and happy, flopped backwards onto the stiff motel bed with an ease that you’ve never seen on her before. 

“What is it, love?” 

You shake your head with a smile at the gentle concern in her tone and the furrow to her brow, crawling onto the bed to plop yourself gracelessly atop her. 

“It’s nothing, just. I’m so in love with you, you know that?” 

The look on her face, the wonder, could grow gardens. It could raise you from the dead (again), propel you through hell. When she hooks a finger gently under your chin and pulls your lips together for a gentle kiss you lose air. You lose your bearings on reality because she is kissing you with the love of a god, the beauty of someone who has lived and died and done it all again for you, you, _you_. 

You aren’t responsible for how your body reacts when she’s pressed against you like this. It’s her skin, you decide while your hands are skimming along the smooth hot skin of her back where you’ve pushed away the fabric of her shirt. Her skin is your undoing, every single time-- her sleeveless tops, her exposed stomach, the sheer length of her legs when she wears those tiny black shorts. It all drives you into the sort of teenage explosive lust that fueled your ‘platonic friends’ charade, that has you pinning her wrists above her head now and sucking on her tongue, pressing yourself into the length of her body.

You had fully intended on showering, eating, and falling asleep early cuddled around your girlfriend, but you are more than happy to postpone those plans for your new top agenda item: fucking her senseless.

She moans and bucks against you and you feel that much closer to coming before she’s touched you with any intention, which you need to remedy, so to focus yourself you nose your way down her jaw, pausing to scrape your teeth against her earlobe and suck. She shudders and mewls-- it’s one of her favorites, you know, and you repeat the action again before moving down her neck. 

You begin your ritual process of exploring down her neck thoroughly, biting and sucking and generally relishing in her whimpers and panting as your chests brush together and you carve down towards her collarbones. 

And then you notice the splotch you’ve left behind, right under the hinge of her jaw.

It’s big-- darkening to a mulberry shade that wouldn’t fade for a good week or two. There’s another underneath it, and a set of teeth marks, and a few smaller bruises down on her collarbone. 

You’ve never been able to leave marks on her skin before-- they’d always healed before they could bloom across her, and you wait a beat or two to see if they’ll melt back into her. 

She notices that you’ve left the moment a bit, and the tilts back to look at you.

“Is everything alright baby?”

The bruises, if anything, darken, while she wait for you to respond. 

“Of course. Coming up with a game plan,” you say with a half-grin that must glint with the amount of lightening-spiked lust that is radiating through your body right now, because Carmilla’s eyes darken considerably.

“Hopefully we’ll both score,” she drawls. 

You groan a little before pushing her back to the bed, hands trailing lower.

_Two hours and an immeasurable amount of orgasams afterwards, Carmilla’s human stamina is completely stripped. She’s immobile, flopped half on top of you after you’d practically wrung her out by urging her to ride your face until she couldn’t even hold her head up anymore. While you’re stroking up and down her back, watching her breathing even out, you trace over the red lines your fingernails have managed to furrow there._

You smirk, ghosting over the flowerbed of purples and reds sprung across her thighs and hips.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sorry this is so short, but: Carm learns the joys of moderation

2\. Carmilla has always been sensory, you know this. 

She needs the reassurance of your touch a lot, your hands tangled with hers or on her thigh or tapping along the ridge of her shoulder while she reads in your lap ( _“I just like to feel you cutie, is that so bad?”_ ). She cards her fingers through your hair when you’re busy editing footage, sliding behind you to squeeze into nonexistent space in your desk chair: midnight messages and mid-day cuddling nap sessions are commonplace. 

She likes scented candles, soft sheets, music so long as it’s not on too loud. She’s soft and small and more delicate than ever, with short bitten nails and bangs again, a girl who sleeps curled as tightly to you as she can. Who cries at movies even though she wipes her tears away before you can comment. A lovely, eighteen year old human that you love more and more deeply with each passing day.

But right now? She’s driving you insane. 

Because it isn’t as if she hasn’t eaten every one of your take-out meals since the two of you had met: that’s not even including your snacks, your chocolate, and your coco. That was just to annoy you, and because she liked to taste things that weren’t blood. But now that she _needs_ to eat, she’s taking the whole thing a little overboard. 

“Carm. Baby. You’ve already had two orders of fries. You’re going to make yourself sick,” you say with a frown, reaching after her grabby hands rooting through the brown paper bag. She’s munching away at her third cheeseburger and rolls her eyes at you as you pull her wrists out and lace her greasy fingers with yours. 

“Sorry, cupcake, but you just have no idea how good it feels to eat after three hundred years on a liquid diet.” 

You’ve picked up on that-- the morning after your first night together in the motel, you’d woken up to the cavernous rumbling of her stomach underneath your hand. She’d startled awake, looking wildly confused for a moment or two before she had caught you grinning widely. You’d dragged her to the diner across the road after that, and were charmed when she had inhaled an entire “lumberjack breakfast” in the time it took you to get through your kids’ menu smiley-face pancakes. That night she ate an entire half of a pizza all on her lonesome.

So you sigh, long-suffering as always, and lean back against the headboard of the motel bed to reabsorb back into whatever stupid reality show the two of you were getting really into before you’d run out to get food. You were staying here until your dad made it back from Graz, as you’d coordinated the night before. This meant a blissful two more days of lounging around the room with Carmilla; watching movies, cuddling, eating junk food, and, well, participating in an amount of sex often unseen outside of a honeymoon. 

After becoming steadily more reabsorbed into _Four Weddings_ you hear a low, pained groan. Carmilla is doubled over next to you on the bed, clutching at her the soft pouch of her stomach and wincing.

“Jesus Christ I’m re-dying,” she moans into your shoulder, her hair tickling your nose where it’s brushing your face. You pat her back soothingly, rubbing little circles, and she nuzzles into you.

“If you keep eating like this you’re gonna throw up, love.” 

She shushes you with a blind hand reaching out to cover your mouth. You push your tongue out to lick at her salt covered fingers and she squeals quietly into your shirt. She starts to say something but it’s muffled and quiet.

“What are you saying, Carm?”

She pulls back with a little eye roll that you ignore and, almost shyly, says, “I’m just really enjoying being human again. I could never have dreamed that I’d get to have this with you and...it’s a lot, sometimes. To get everything you didn’t even think you could wish for.”

“Baby,” you say, breathless in the way that only she can make you feel when she opens up like this. Like you were worth eternity, like you were enough to choose death for.

“Also food isn’t the only thing that I’ve been ravenous for since reanimating.” 

It’s your turn to roll your eyes, but you can’t help the hint of a blush that heats up along your cheeks and neck (and trickles down to burn between your thighs just a little). Carmilla is too full and warm to act on her words, but you’ll have time for that later. 

For now, she’s pliant and soft and snuffling against your shoulder, drifting in and out of sleep, peaceful in a way that you were never able to see before. 

Also really, really full.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come ask me questions/ give me prompts and ideas on my tumblr at mamaweeds


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> im gay most of us are gay this too is gay

Carmilla sits with you in the backseat of your dad’s car, hands clasped tightly together, her thumb running over the bumps of your knuckles soothingly while your dad chatters away about his adventures since leaving the two of you (you don’t have to say it, she knows that cars still make you a bit uneasy even after all these years).

 

In the trunk are all the material things that the two of you had managed to make it out of Silas with. As the Austrian emergency response teams had begun the arduous process of making sure the recently freed student body had completely evacuated the pit, they also recovered and removed the items they found from the remains of your old dorm. You managed to regain your favorite sheets and comfy clothes (and on Carmilla’s insistence the yellow sham), and she was once again shouldering her canvas duffle bag after shoveling the few items that she seemed to own into it carelessly.

 

“Do you...is this all you have?” You ask her. She turns from where she had been staring out the window and the passing landscapes and streaking rain. The little smile that turns up the corners of her mouth is quiet and somewhat sad and for a (you’ll admit, newly terrifying) instant your heart throbs a little.

 

“No, cupcake, I have other things. They’re mostly scattered around apartments and properties that I own, mementos here and there. All my most sentimental things are in Vienna, though.” She says this casually, as if she isn’t admitting to being some sort of international real estate magnate. You must look impressed because she scoffs.

 

“Well, I do have an inheritance in my name that’s been incurring interest in an Austrian bank account for a few generations now-- money has never been a problem for me.”

 

“How does that work? You’ve been using different identities at school,” you ask. The subject of Carm’s legality has always been interesting for you to think about, even though you’d never gotten the chance to ask her about it yet. How she traveled, if she had any forms of ID, how she was able to exist as a dead girl, invisible in the eyes of governments for so many years.

 

“Well Mother was nothing if not detail oriented. She had ways of making people give her what she wanted, through some avenue or another. She produced passports, birth certificates, you name it. They’re always under Millarca von Karnstein, young ingenue and heiress to her great-grandmother’s fortune,” she smirks, taking on the tone of voice that once rung through grand halls and sparkling ballrooms, to servants and maids. Haughty, demanding. You suppress the unexpected shiver that runs through you and focus.

 

“Let me guess, the grandmother that you’re named after and bear a striking resemblance to?”

 

“The very same, sweetheart. In the eyes of international governments I’m just an exceedingly rich college student who was raised with private tutors and fears hospitals. Nothing too out of the ordinary.” She says, a smile curling up on the corners of her lips. You take all this in for a moment, trying to understand the generations that have passed her by, the identities that she has melded into and shed like old skin.

 

About an hour later you’re dozing against her shoulder while she reads, your dad humming along to the radio. You haven’t felt this content in years, not since your mother died. All the most important people in your life safe, secure, bored and completely blessedly alive.

 

Your brain starts whirring again like it does, and though you don’t open your eyes you find that you can’t fall back asleep. You’re wondering about Carmilla, what she’s going to do, what her new future holds for the two of you. She’s going to have to get her degree, get a job, file taxes. You can’t even imagine her doing the dishes, let alone having to fill out a 401K. That leads you to thoughts about her health insurance, and that to her new body.

 

You’ve read it all over again in the last few days, learned it’s new gentleness and softness, the heat of her, the thrum of her heart, the way that she gets hangnails and foot cramps and how a flush forms on high on her lovely cheekbones and nose and floods its way down the column of her neck. You’re already thinking of the things that she’s going to need to set up: shots, check-ups, an eye exam that you _know_ she needs considering how much she’s been squinting at her books the last few days.

 

You’re going to have to make sure your care for her can stay consistent, because she isn’t always the best when it comes to meeting her own needs.

 

You feel so content with this, with the knowledge that the two of you have your lives together in the way that you never could have dreamed of before. That will always be more than enough for you, the rest of your life.

 

By the time you make it to the airport Carmilla has fallen asleep, heavy and messy in the way that you absolutely love.

 

“Carm,” you sing-song, stroking her flushed cheek, “Carmilla baby you’ve gotta wake up. We’re here, we’re at the airport.”

 

She grumbles and looks incredibly sullen, blinking slowly like the cat she once embodied but grabs around for her phone which had slipped out of her lap and in-between you. You confiscate her searching fingers and kiss the knuckles of each one while your dad is unloading suitcases from the back.

 

“Have I mentioned that I’m in love with you lately?”

 

She pretends to ponder this, finger tapping on the sharp edge of her jaw.

 

“Hmm...yes, but, I could stand to hear it again. And again.”

 

“And for the rest of our lives?”

 

You don’t know why, but you freeze after you say this. You realize that while this is what you had assumed that you both wanted after saving the world and each other from a death goddess, but you haven’t talked about it in such explicit terms before. A cold stab of panic rests inside your throat.

 

“I mean, unless that’s not what you want, I didn’t mean to put words in your mouth or anything because I know we haven’t talked about anything long-term yet but, honestly, you’re it for me Carm, and I don’t want to scare you away but--”

 

The same fingers you had just pecked with kisses are gently cupped over your mouth now, muffling the last word into an incoherent fuzz.

 

“Laura. You are...everything. If you don’t think that already then it’s my fault for not making it more clear. I’m in this forever, for as long as you’ll have me. I want us to get married. I want a house and pets, waking up together every day-- everything. All of it.”

 

You’re not stunned-- that implies that Carm’s words were shocking to you somehow, and they weren’t. You know very pressingly and truly that she loves you with her entirety. But you hadn’t quite been able to comprehend that you get to _have_ her, with no ultimatum or expiration date in the foreseeable future.

 

For a moment, you catch her eye. And you smile at the softness that you find there, the vulnerability. When you take her hand, you don’t let go until you’re over the ocean and she’s fallen asleep in your lap, more than halfway to your new lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> follow me @mamaweeds on tumblr to ask me q's about this or whatever you want


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw for vomit. in a cute way.

Somehow your body just knows when she’s left bed, because it’s around four in the morning and you are pulled rudely out of sleep into the dark and quiet of your bedroom. You feel for her blindly, and the sheets over where she’s usually sleeping are warm still so you know that she can’t have been gone for too long.

“Carm?” You ask to the dark.

There’s no answer, so you turn to see if she’s in the bathroom, but the lack of light and the open door answers that question for you quickly. Your worry for her surmounts your lack of motivation to leave your soft, warm bed, so you pull on your sweatpants from the floor next to you and pad out into the hallway. Everything is warm and half-dark still so you feel hazy and dreamy when you find her in the living room.

Her hair is thrown up in the messy bun that you love and she’s in her underwear and a teeshirt, laying on the couch. The television is a blue glow in the foreground but there is no sound on. As you make your way past the dining table towards her you notice that her head is hanging off the couch, one arm extended out and grabbing hold of a large mixing bowl from the kitchen. 

“Carmilla?”

A low, pained groan is your answer, and she lifts her head marginally to look at you through messy bangs. In the blue glow from the the screen you see a flush on her cheeks and forehead, her eyes are half closed, and there’s strands of hair stuck damply to her face. She groans again before leaning further over the bowl. You can hear her heaving and straining and it breaks your heart.

You stand next to the arm of the couch until she finishes and leans back into your stomach, loose and exhausted.

“Poor thing. When did you start to feel sick?”

Carm’s answer comes halted on a raw throat, “I just woke up feeling so shitty, so I went to the bathroom. But it wouldn’t stop so I came out here. I didn’t want to wake you.”

You card your fingers through her slightly damp, messy hair, hoping to soothe her. 

“Next time wake me up, ok? I want to make sure you’re fine.”

She’s too exhausted to respond with words so she just nods into your hand as it cradles her face. You move around the couch and slide in between her and the arm, cradling her against your chest. She feels flushed with fever and small in your arms.

You’d moved into your apartment in Montreal almost a month ago, and things had been blissful. The two of you were set to start school after the summer, but for now you are interning (in a paid position, thank god) at the Gazette and at your insistence she’s taking the time off to heal and grow into her new body.

You’d gotten her squared away with all of the paperwork that she needed to be a real and government-recognized eighteen year old student, and it had been a surprisingly easy process. Her Mother may have been a death goddess intent on destroying the world at large, but she was detail oriented, and Carmilla’s paper trail was cohesive enough that the things she had never thought to worry about before, like healthcare and tax forms and passport renewals, were a matter of submitting to the right offices and paying the appropriate fees. 

So, in the fall you would both be transferring as incoming Sophomores to McGill, living in the cramped and beautiful apartment in Mount Royal you had allowed her to use her inheritance on. There were potted plants filling the windowsills, flowers on the dining table, blankets tossed all around the living room because Carmilla was still not great at dealing with even minor chills. Soft light from the north-facing windows that spilled over the kitchen and living room every morning as you started on the coffee, mottling over the table and into diamond shaped splotches on the kitchen counter, glinting off you stirring spoon. It was absolutely perfect, lovely, peaceful. Everything you wanted and wished for out of the life you wanted with Carmilla. 

The mornings had become your favorite. Carm was always pink-cheeked, messy haired, with bitten nails and the most charming squint into the light from the curtains you opened up as part of your routine convincing her out of bed with the promise of breakfast and kisses. She would wrap the fluffy blanket from the end of your bed around her shoulders and trudge after you, grumbling about the cold floor. 

And now, on the couch so late it was early in the morning, she’s starting to soften against you, seemingly comfortable enough for now to get a bit of sleep. After you’re sure that she’s not going to wake up when you move her, you set off into the kitchen to be adequately prepared, googling ‘stomach flu’ and coming up with a game plan (research skills have always been your strong suit, after all).

Within fifteen minutes you’ve got a small pyramid set out on the counter in front of you-- saltine crackers, cans of soup for when she starts to regain her appetite. You’ve got the rice cooker primed and ready for use, checked that there’s bread and butter for toast if she wants it, and fished an as of yet un-opened box of ginger tea, good for nausea. 

While you’re making sure that there is ice in the freezer in case she can’t drink water yet, you hear the unmistakable sound of more pained retching followed by a barely audible whimper. 

“Carm?”

You make your way back to your room where the light from the attached bathroom is leaking out over the floor. Inside, she’s kneeling over the toilet, retching, so you cross over to her to hold her hair out of her face, stoke the back of her neck and try to offer her some sort of comfort. 

“I’m so goddamn over being a human.”

You laugh quietly and stroke the back of her neck while she pants. 

“Just think about how much easier PMS seems now,” you say, and Carm snorts a bit of a laugh. You slide down onto the tile and take her with you, wrapping her up because she seems so soft against the hard ceramic.

“Do you want to come back to bed or do you want to go to the couch?”

“Bed,” Carm mumbles into your shirt. You pull back and brush her messy bangs back and see that she’s fading fast, and you aren’t too certain that you could carry her back, so you pull her up with you with a modicum of resistance. You half-guide, half-dump Carm into the bed where she flops down on your side.

You look at her for a minute. The fact that you aren’t radiating in the dark, glowing, is vaguely surprising considering how much love you have inside of you in that exact moment. You climb in, sliding under the now-cool covers and rubbing her shoulder. Her mouth is slightly parted, and she seems very nearly asleep until she sluggishly reaches out and curls your fingers together.

“Love you,” she mumbles, eyes already closed.

“I love you too, baby.”

She sleeps soundly after that, for the rest of the night, and you dream of her.

It’s _almost_ enough to make up for the fact that you spend the next morning cleaning vomit off your floorboards.

**Author's Note:**

> these will all be done in a few days-- come yell at me on tumblr @mamaweeds


End file.
